


Children of the Goddess

by wearwind



Series: Verdant Wind [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Claude is too smart for his own good, Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Divine Pulse Angst (Fire Emblem), Divine Pulse Deaths (Fire Emblem), F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Garreg Mach Monastery (Fire Emblem), Gen, Golden Deer Sylvain Jose Gautier, Pre-Time Skip, Sylvain Jose Gautier Being An Idiot, Sylvain keeps dying, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey, Zanado angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind
Summary: “I should probably go,” Claude says after a moment. “Sorry for taking up your alone time with my nonsense.” She can hear him shift his weight awkwardly; when she says nothing, he shuffles over to the door and lingers there. “Teach,” he says suddenly, “do you often dream of us dying?”Sylvain falls in battle, and Byleth finds herself frantically searching for a scenario in which he survives - even as his death seems immutable. Her attempts make a few waves.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Series: Verdant Wind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734619
Comments: 86
Kudos: 261
Collections: Claude





	1. Falling short of heaven

**Author's Note:**

> In my second FE3H playthrough, I lost Sylvain to permadeath without a save to fall back on, and I think it permanently scarred me. It still hurts to think about it, dammit. This is my attempt at processing it - as well as a collection of a few thoughts on Sothis, Zanado, and the angst of turning back time.
> 
> The story is complete at the time of publishing and will be three chapters long. Updates will be on Wednesdays.

> _What you remember saves you._   
>  _W. S. Merwin_

Sylvain dies while defending Rhea. He dies recklessly, stupidly, charging with a lance on a Dark Knight. There is a flash of black smoke, and the next thing she sees, sprinting across the underbrush as she is in the vain hope to catch up to him – is his auburn head bent at a wrong angle, blood trickling out of unseeing eyes.

Her hands are steady as she pulls at the fabric of time.

It doesn’t give way.

She pulls again, Sothis stirring within her with hazy alarm. The strands of time are taut in her palms, all the pre-existent slack gone already – the cost of saving Mercedes ( _Pegasus Knight flying from across the lake, her lance overreaching, crushing the delicate bones of her neck with a sweep of the steel handle_ ) and Lysithea ( _axe burying itself in her ribcage with a sickening crunch_ ) and Ashe ( _he dodges two arrows, but the third one pierces his eye socket to the nape_ ). There is no more loose temporal material to wind around her palm.

Byleth exhales in the timeless void, forcing herself to calm down. What happens, what _would happen_ now is –

When she blindly feels for a familiar shape earlier in the timeline, there is only smoothness under her fingers. There is no knot on the fabric of time to pull her back.

“Sothis,” she whispers insistently. “Take me back.”

The child goddess finally stirs awake and takes stock of the situation. “Oh, dear. Oh, _dear._ Are you asking _me_ for help? I already shared all my power with you, Byleth, and you’ve proven yourself most creative with it. Knotting it, really – who could have thought? But you always ran the risk of it coming undone.”

“I can’t let him die.” Byleth’s hands shake slightly as she reaches out further, feeling naught but silky smoothness in the whirlpools of time. Nothing to anchor herself in, nothing to dive back into.

“It may be that he has not perished yet,” Sothis muses, looking at the black-and-purple figure of Sylvain still upright on his horse. She reaches out, her slender palm phasing through his chest like smoke. “His heart beats still. You do have your healers close, do you not? Attempt saving him at least. Perhaps this shall be an important lesson not to charge blindly. You are his professor, after all.”

“If I try saving him here,” Byleth asks, weighing in her options, “and he dies – can I go back?”

Sothis lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Questions again, as if I had any more answers than you do! Let us ponder that only _after_ it should become a bother, hmm?”

Byleth nods curtly. Making sure she has located Mercedes and Linhardt on the battlefield, and that they are not too far, she flicks her wrist and lets the time slither forward out of her palm.

She screams for them, a sound so rare that it makes every head turn in alarm. They both make their way to Sylvain before he even hits the ground. Still he staggers down inertly, his foot tangled in a stirrup, blood staining his auburn hair true red.

She knows, without looking, that it’s too late.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid yells across the battlefield, her pegasus a heavy shadow above them like a sudden eclipse. Her voice cracks, then grows into a bellowing cry. “Sylvain!”

At the corner of her eye, Byleth can see the Dark Knight ready another spell. She saunters forward, forcing him to refocus on her, and slashes wide across the horse’s chest. When the animals falls to its knees, she finishes it with a fast, brutal thrust to the throat.

It’s revenge, but it’s meaningless. Behind her, she hears Mercedes give a strangled half-moan half-cry.

Ingrid dives in, pure fury twisting her handsome face into a mask of death. Her lance skewers the Dark Knight clean through, and then she thrusts it again, and again, and again –

“Ingrid,” Byleth says. The girl is not hearing her.

Linhardt approaches her silently, and there is a tiredness in his green eyes that would suffice for a thousand lifetimes. He is not a warrior, not a fighter. The only thing he’s ever wanted was a moment of warmth and peace – and a book half-open on his chest as he dozes off, tea going cold at the side of the hammock. She’s promised him those things one day, and he’s followed her to her house, but she’s brought him into a bloody battlefield instead. “The spikes went through his brain. There’s nothing we can do.”

_Sylvain._

Beyond Ingrid’s wailing, she can hear the rest of them coming closer, and she knows that if she sees another expression splintering into blank shock she will not be able to sleep. Not tonight, not ever.

She freezes time.

Ingrid’s lance stills a hair’s breadth shy of another thrust, the lifeless husk of the Dark Knight’s chest barely resembling a human form.

“Take me back,” she demands, her voice hard and urgent. “Now.”

Sothis’s face goes ever so slightly paler. “This is familiar. How do I remember this feeling? The feeling of watching your fallen child…”

Byleth doesn’t have time for this. “Take me _back,_ Sothis!”

“But how can I? I never—” Sothis trails off, voice frail. “I can see them,” she says softly. “The knots in time you have made for their sake. I could try….”

“Sothis,” she pleads, something in her dead chest stirring like scorching fire. “Now. Please.”

“There is no _now,_ ” the child goddess chastises her, but her eyes are dark and haunted. “I could try reaching farther – but this is an entire _moon_. I never turned it this far behind.”

“I’ll take a moon,” Byleth grinds out. “Just—”

“You will forget this,” Sothis says very softly. “And it will happen again. I fear that this is not the first time we are here.”

“I won’t forget. I won’t.” She closes her eyes tightly. A small hand brushes along her cheek, as if gathering the unspilled tears.

Then the world splinters into black and purple.

***

“—fishing tournament. Who has time for this right now, really?!”

Byleth finds her mouth open for a reply, but the words disappear. The embankments of the open areas around the lake shiver slightly around the edges, as if uncertain they should coalesce in this form, but then they still. The sun is warm on her skin, her shoulders aching with sudden relief; in an instant, the weight of the armour has given way, morphing seamlessly into her professorial robes. She is back in the monastery, time rewound neatly to the Wyvern Moon.

The look of exasperation slips off Leonie’s face, replaced by wary concern. “Professor?”

“Have you seen Sylvain?”

Leonie looks at her for a long, confused moment. “I think he’s sulking in his room,” she says finally. “Him and Felix had another fight. Are you all right, professor?”

Byleth gives her a hint of a smile, glad that her perpetually expressionless face hides the turmoil within. “Yes. Leonie, can you remember something for me?”

Leonie blinks. “Of course.”

“Remind me tomorrow,” she says, feeling the memories of the time-that-would-not-happen stirs in her mind, eager to ramble away at her first slip of focus, “that Sylvain and I need to practice combat against mounted magic.”

“Sure,” Leonie says. Everything in her posture now spells utter bafflement. “Is this for something in particular—”

But Byleth is already walking away, willing her limbs not to break into a frantic run.

The door to Sylvain’s room is left ajar, a sure sign that if any kind lady chose to console the dramatically hurting young noble, she would be most welcome to. Byleth pushes it open with a steady hand, images of the battlefield flashing behind her eyelids.

_A single leg dangling in a lopsided stirrup, blood dripping along a twisted neck._

“Professor—!”

Relief floods her mind at the boring, _mundane_ sight of him leaning back on the chair, half-written letter spread on the walnut desk ahead. His hair is tousled, expression grouchy before it lights up into his signature charming smile – both inviting and fake as anything.

She wants to open her arms and cradle him close to her chest, Sothis stirring in her with rapt longing.

_Here’s your child. Safe. Sound._

_He’s not my child,_ Byleth answers matter-of-factly. _Just a few years younger at most._ Sothis snickers to herself with an oddly teary twinge to it, watching fondly through her eyes.

 _Keep telling yourself that, my darling fool._ Then, with a deep sigh, _I am glad that he lives._

 _Yes,_ Byleth says firmly. _He will not die again._

Then she realises that Sylvain is watching her with similar confusion as Leonie. “… Did you need anything, Professor?” Then, his signature charm turned on her with a blinding flash of teeth, “Perhaps we should chat about it over tea?”

“Very well,” she agrees, relief and fondness filling her ribcage like a living heart. His eyebrows jump to his hairline.

“Really? Oh wow. I mean— _of course_. I know you love spending time with your favourite student.” His eyes, blessedly alive and unblooded, momentarily cloud with uncertainty. “Are you all right?”

“Nothing a warm cup of tea couldn’t fix,” she says and watches him flounder speechless for a few beats. Then he grins, bright and delighted.

“Sure thing. I happen to know exactly what a refined, gorgeous lady such as yourself would need to unwind. Take a seat, please!” With a flourish, he offers her his own seat – which she takes with an indulgent smile playing at the corner of her lip – and busies himself with making tea. There is a pot already sitting on the slow-burning candle, she notices absent-mindedly, no doubt waiting for just such opportunity.

The letter on the table is addressed to his father. Even she can tell the sentences are stilted, overly formal and emotionless in the exact opposite of Sylvain’s usual demeanour.

The tea is sweet, flowery, and gentle. Not quite the flavour she tends to go for – she tends to enjoy more crisp, tart flavours, closer to Claude’s beloved pine or Lysithea’s mint – but she smiles at him as she takes the first sip, and he preens with satisfaction. He’s no Lorenz to know his tea through and through, but she can appreciate the thought behind it.

“So, Professor,” he begins with a glint in his eye, “did you have any reason to visit, or are you simply this starved for my company? I sure hope it’s the latter.”

“I did,” Byleth says, and the next words run out of her on its own. “I wanted to see if you are well.”

“Oh?” He sips his own tea, closing his eyes for a moment. “You already heard about my fight with Felix? Hiding anything from those beautiful eyes of yours is an impossibility, Professor.”

_A flash of black magic, and a strangled yelp –_

_He stumbles backwards, neck scrunching terribly and unnaturally to the side. Blood begins to trickle out of the corner of his orange-gold eyes._

“Yes,” she says. “Leonie told me.”

“And how would _she_ know— _ugh_ ,” Sylvain groans miserably. “Let me guess. Felix was looking for someone to spar with, found Leonie, started yelling at her in the middle of the duel, and yapped everything out not just to her, but to the entire training grounds. Of course.”

Her lip shivers in a small smile. Sylvain catches that and offers a grin of his own.

“Don’t worry about it, Professor. He’ll get over it. And as for me, well – consider me thoroughly distracted from my personal problems. You will need to stay as close as possible to make sure I continue to be well.”

 _He’s alive,_ something sings in her chest, fiercely protective. _He’s alive. And if I do need to stay close to keep him that way, to protect him, then I will._

 _Protect him from what?_ asks Sothis hazily. Byleth thinks about it for a moment with a furrowed brow.

 _He died,_ she answers. _He died from – black magic. And I need to stop it._

 _Oh,_ Sothis says in a more sober tone. _We’re forgetting. I think I – haven’t I told you that?_

“Professor?” prompts Sylvain. Byleth realises that she has frozen with a cup raised halfway to her lips. She resumes the movement and takes another big sip.

“Yes,” she says. “We need to talk about your training.”

Sylvain’s face falls a little. “There are so many better things I can imagine us talking about. Can I read you this poem instead? I wrote it just for you.”

“You’re slacking,” Byleth informs him. “Ingrid and Felix—”

“—have their motivations,” Sylvain says with a shrug, as if he’s heard this argument a million times. “Which drive them. What I’m driven by, however, is the glint of the sea I spy in your sapphire eyes. Haven’t you felt this kind of passion, Professor?”

Byleth stares at him for a moment, committing to memory the gentle curves of his handsome face. The learned, curated tilt to his neck; the glint of intelligence in his eyes, buried beneath his signature hedonism and facetiousness. The flashes of anger and hatred that sometimes rear their heads from the depths of his apathy, only to accentuate how aimless and lethargic he is without them. Hidden deeper still, a silent plea to be seen – not for his Crest, but himself.

She loves him, she realises without great surprise; loves him with all the indulgence and sharpness of a mother. And she will _not_ let him die.

“My passion,” she says after another sip of the sweet, flowery tea, “is keeping my students alive. And your unwillingness to commit runs directly counter to that.”

Sylvain barks a laugh. “So unusual to hear you speak with such fire, Professor. It almost makes me want to train more, it this is what my lady desires.” Then he adds slyly, “I wouldn’t be averse to private tutoring, you know.”

“Very well,” Byleth decides, and his eyes go wide. _Bloodless, alive, orange-gold eyes._ “We start tomorrow. Meet me at the cavalry training grounds at dawn.”

Sylvain makes a strangled noise back in his throat.

She raises a single eyebrow at him. He collects himself admirably quickly, though not quickly enough to stop the rosy blush spreading across his cheeks. “You’re full of surprises today, aren’t you, Professor?”

She finishes her tea and stands up with a nod. “Be there. And _on time,_ Sylvain, please.”

He flutters for a moment, visibly unsure what to do with his hands. Both disbelief and immense satisfaction shine through the cracks of his charming mask before he finally fits it back on. “It’s a date.”

Byleth smiles under her breath and walks out. Before she crosses the doorway, Sylvain flings one more question at her, eager to push his luck before the moment runs out. “What time are you having dinner tonight, Professor?”

“Six in the evening,” she answers evenly.

“May I sit with you?” he asks, emboldened, and Byleth feels a wave of warm affection bloom in her chest again.

“Of course,” she says and turns away.

She can _hear_ him fist-pump the air, and she doesn’t mind at all.

***

Every professor at Garreg Mach has favourites, and they’re more or less publicly well-known – Manuela and Dorothea hold their weekly tea parties in the garden, while Linhardt and Hanneman are less student and teacher and more research partners. Seteth holds his sympathies much closer to his chest, but Byleth has seen him speak with Ingrid and Mercedes with more fondness than she had thought the man capable of. Even Jeritza – the gloomy, silent Jeritza – had taken a shine to Felix before disappearing from the monastery. Byleth has tried very hard to steer clear of that route and distribute her attention and care equally. But as the weeks go by, it becomes more and more obvious that everyone has a markedly different opinion.

Her Golden Deer notice first, of course; Ingrid and Felix are next, the former sending her an incredulous, pitying glance, the latter a full-on scowl. There is another big fight between Sylvain and Felix, one that ends up just short of both of them in the infirmary; then Dimitri approaches her, bashful and apologetic, and flounders for a long fifteen minutes before signing himself off without managing to say anything. Byleth ignores them.

At the start of the new moon, Catherine bides them go on a mission on the Western Church territory, protecting Lady Rhea from dissenters. The assignment makes something stir within her, something nameless, something scary –

There is a knock on her door. Then, without waiting for an answer, Claude ducks his head into the doorway and looks at her expectantly.

“Hey, Teach. Got a minute?”

She nods. Claude slinks into her room and closes the door behind him, something in his face shifting as he does.

“So,” he begins blithely, “there’s this wild rumour that seems to be spreading through the monastery. Care to hear it?”

She nods again. Claude steals another look at her and stretches his hands behind his back. “Apparently, our newest prodigy professor has fallen victim to the charms of the Academy’s most unrepentant skirt-chaser. At least, that’s what the skirt-chaser in question seems to think. And brag about. Now, I’ve had my own observations, but I think they’re inconclusive. What do you think, Teach?”

Byleth shoots him an unimpressed look. Claude looks back, lips curled up in a grin, but a shadow of concern in his eyes. “See, I know you’re not exactly… _the soul of the party_ , shall we say? I get it, people are confusing. I’m confused pretty much all the time. And don’t even get me started on teenage flirts, _ugh_ —” Byleth can’t help but smile, and Claude offers her his most brilliant grin in return. “I just thought we should have a little heart-to-heart. About, you know… romance.”

A beat passes. Sothis, currently floating just behind Claude at the corner of the room, begins to laugh in earnest. _He’s concerned about you! Oh, how darling._

Byleth fights off the urge to level a glare at her and instead redirects her attention to Claude. “I’m not involved with Sylvain,” she informs him.

Claude huffs a laugh, hand scratching at the back of his neck. “I believe you. Trust me, Teach, I think I’ve got you figured out at least _that_ much. Problem is, I might be in the minority here.”

At her lack of reaction, he shuffles over to perch up at the edge of her bed. “See… just the sheer amount of time you’re spending with him is really suspicious. Teas, dinners, that private training you do – you do realise that you can just tell him no if he wants to tag along, right? I think that’s what other ladies seem to be doing. He’s a flirt, but at least not a nagging one.”

Byleth turns around in her chair to take a proper look at him. Claude has always been hard to read, and not just because he wears his earnestness like a suit of armour. He is earnest now, too: his eyes are all glittering amusement lined with concern. But beyond that, tucked in the crinkle of his smile, there is also something else.

Something that very much looks like blazing curiosity.

She signs inwards, eliciting another round of pearly laughter from Sothis. “I don’t mind Sylvain’s presence.” It’s true that he had attached himself to her side like a particularly insistent piece of couch grass, but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. It is comforting, a reminder of a thing that fades from her memory day by day, the reason obscured in the purple darkness of time magic: _he is alive, and I will not let him die._

Claude sighs. “You’re too nice, Teach. You know that he’s been telling the entire monastery you have fallen head over heels for his pretty face?”

Byleth almost smiles again. “Let them talk. I don’t mind.”

“I kind of do,” Claude says. Then he breaks it off with a wink. “I thought I was your favourite. If you had to fall head over heels for a student, why not keep it within the Alliance proper?”

“Spoken like a true house leader,” Byleth quips, surprised by her own wit, and Claude rewards her with a brilliant laugh.

“You see right through my ulterior motives, eh, Teach? I should expect as much.” Then his face sobers, which is almost a painful sight. “But seriously… this isn’t good for you. Your reputation, your house, and your position with Rhea too. _I_ might know you’re not dallying with a student, but I don’t think she spends quite as much time watching you as I do.” Then he pauses, reconsidering. “Or maybe she does. _Point is,_ I think you should spend less time with Sylvain.” He leans forward on his elbows, and Byleth _knows_ that particular glimpse in his eye. “Why that sudden change, anyway?”

 _There is it._ He is not insincere; he _does_ worry about her and the position of the Golden Deer. But he is also painfully, blisteringly curious, and wants answers. That’s why he is here and not aflutter around the monastery, hard at work spreading a counter-rumour about Sylvain secretly pining after Seteth.

Byleth feels another fond smile sneak onto her lips.

 _Honestly,_ Sothis complains without heat, _these cheery nuisances._

“He needs more practice,” she says. “And motivation for it.”

“Interesting. Especially that I could swear our own Hilda might have identical issues, and you don’t drag her around on a horse every morning of the week.” Claude regards her with one of his more wry glances, curiosity bubbling to the surface. “I’ll level with you, Teach. I had a chat with Leonie, and she told me that about two weeks ago, you suddenly seemed incredibly ill. And the first thing you did after was ask about Sylvain.”

Byleth suppresses a sigh. _Golden Deer, huh?_ She has a feeling that between the immensely clever Claude, overbearing Lorenz, and aggressively efficient Lysithea, she could have really chosen a house with less chaotic energy to fill up her free time. “And what’s your theory, Claude?”

Claude bounces back and forward on his elbows. “I’ll share it if you promise to say how close I am to the mark.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll share it anyway and work out whatever I can from your reaction,” he admits with a grin. “Though you’re not really giving me much to work with. All right, listen up.” Byleth leans forward, intrigued against herself. “I think you’re worried sick, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why.”

 _Oh_.

Not for the first time in his presence, Byleth is grateful for her deadpan expression.

Claude watches her raptly, without a doubt comparing her reaction to a catalogue of others he carries in his restless brain; then he tilts his head to the side in blatant expectation. “So… dead centre?”

She doesn’t respond.

“You tend to do this regularly,” Claude says, gentle but insistent. “Every once in a while when we return from a close call. You pick a few of us and give them your undivided attention for a little while. Sometimes it’s the mages, but then we come back from a regular skirmish and you’re all over Raphael and Caspar for some reason.” He shakes his head a little. “And I’ve never worked out how you pick them. Except that it’s almost never me.”

 _You don’t fall very often,_ Byleth thinks mutely. Sothis lets out a long-suffering sigh.

_Clever. Too clever for his own good, this one. Must you keep this kind of company? A while longer, and he will have our secrets unfurled. And what will we both do then, hmm?_

“I’ve been wracking my brains for months to figure out the pattern,” Claude continues, his enthusiasm fading slightly at the onslaught of her empty eyes, “because it’s just not those of us that do badly. Sometimes it’s the heroes of the day that get singled out. The only thing I can really tell with any certainty is that you are worried about all of them, and that you see some kind of flaw in their performance that you feel like needs correcting. Is that right, Teach?”

That is right. She has worked with Mercedes on her agility and retreat strategy once she’d seen her slow and empty-eyed at the sight of an approaching mace. _Time splintered before the metal buried itself in her temple._ With Ingrid, on impulse control – _she’d flown in the range of enemy archers to save Annette, and her falling pegasus crushed them both._ With Lysithea – with Ignatz – Flayn – Hilda – Marianne –

“But it’s different now,” Claude says, cutting the terrible string of memories blessedly short. “We haven’t even been on an assignment for a while. And the way you sought him out was so frantic…”

He trails off, and she can almost see the gears in his brain steaming. For a full minute he keeps silent, staring at her in painful concentration. Byleth avoids his eyes, uncomfortably on display, and turns her gaze to the desk.

Then he lets out a frustrated huff. “I’ve got nothing,” he says, both admission of defeat and an open invitation to poke fun at his attempt. “Come on, Teach, work with me here. You have a duty of care, right? I very much need your care right now. And by care I mean your secrets. See what kind of a wreck you make me without them?”

“Claude,” she says, trying to subdue a smile that her face seems insistent on pulling out, “you’re putting too much thought into this all.”

“Too much, she says. Methinks it’s too little.” Claude makes a face, bouncing back and forth on his elbows with a painful expression. “Fine, I get it. You want to leave this to my own consideration, to figure out when I’m ready. I respect that.” He flashes a quick, toothy smile. “Tell me just this one thing, though. _Why_ are you so worried about Sylvain?”

She doesn’t remember much, now, but she remembers this.

_Auburn hair turned true red –_

_The spikes went through the brain._

_A small, strangled sob from Mercedes, Linhardt’s empty eyes, Ingrid’s wailing fury._

Sothis moves restlessly in her corner. _I think I do understand,_ she says. _You always stopped before they died. You never saw the aftermath. And neither did they._

Byleth takes a long, steadying breath. Claude’s glittering emerald eyes track every movement of her mouth, as if counting the quantity of air she drags into her lungs. “Would you believe me that it’s because I dreamed of him dying?”

Claude chortles. “No. I think no. Maybe.” His eyes flicker to her, incredulous. “Teach? That’s not true, is it?”

She gives him no reaction. Claude rakes his hand through his hair, well and truly exasperated now. “I can’t tell if this is a joke or whether you’re actually being serious. All right, I’ll bite. You _dreamt it?”_

“I think so.”

“You _think_ so,” Claude repeats, staring at her incredulously. “I guess it would be too much to ask you for any further clarification now, huh?”

Byleth shrugs mutely, fixing her empty gaze on the desk in front of her. A dream is a good explanation for what remains in her head now, hazy fog consuming all but the most visceral kernels of the memory that never happened. Sometime in their future, Sylvain dies of black magic. And she cannot stop it.

This is enough for him to know. Anything more is tied to Sothis and the beating heart of time.

Claude is silent for long enough that she finally glances back. His expression is particularly odd, and it takes her a moment to identify it.

A few weeks back in tactics class, they had been poring over records of historical campaigns from the foundation of the Alliance; as Hilda had complained very loudly about the utter impracticality of trying to read the minds and intentions of long-dead generals, Claude and Lysithea had gleefully speculated on the strategies and methods of battlefield analysis. They had spent thirty minutes arguing over the potential Alliance stratagems on the Derdriu plains before finally asking Byleth her opinion.

 _None of those was implemented here,_ she’d said, and watched Lysithea’s face fall at the perceived failure. Claude, instead, had leaned in on his elbows, giving her his full attention. _In fact, none was implemented at all._

Claude’d looked very smug. _Told you we need some out-of-the-box thinking here, kiddo, not just the classical theories_ —

 _No,_ Byleth had said firmly, cutting short Lysithea’s frustrated sputtering. _The point of this exercise is for you to fail in your analysis. No stratagem was utilised in this battle._

They had both hushed, watching her with betrayal written all over their faces. _You are both very bright and well-educated,_ she’d continued, _which can be a handicap on its own. Not all of your foes will share your intelligence, but it will not make them any less dangerous. You must learn to recognise when you are overshooting with your analysis. Sometimes chaos is just chaos._

It is the same wilted, closed-off look that Claude is wearing now, and with a pang in her chest Byleth realises that she has a name for it.

He is disappointed in her.

“So,” he says with well-faked cheer, “I just went and made a fool out of myself again, didn’t I? All that snooping around, and it turns out that there really was no secret at all. You just… have _bad dreams_. Is that right?” He chuckles to himself, stifling it in the cuff of his uniform in a gesture that conveniently hides the contour of his mouth. “Gotta say, you hide yourself well, Teach. All this time, and I never would’ve pegged you for a superstitious type.”

One day, Byleth thinks, he will become a good liar. He is already far ahead of his peers, and has his natural charm to cover up most of the shortcomings. But there’s still too much raw emotion welling beneath the surface of those emerald-green irises; still too much bumbling joy and kind-hearted naiveté to hide himself completely. Most of all, still not the whole of him wants to hide.

He’s not just disappointed; he’s put off. He has known her for a rational decision-maker, and to know that she relies on nightmares to build their team will take a chunk out of his trust in her as a commander.

 _He has liked you better as a mystery,_ Sothis comments, squinting at Claude unfavourably. _So that he could think of you what he wished, unimpeded by reality. Pay him no mind, dear._

Byleth’s eyes drop to her feet. Something around her dead heart stirs restlessly.

It is a foregone conclusion that losing a little bit of a young man’s trust is preferable to divulging the goddess’s secret of time. And regardless of what her golden tactician may think of her now, Byleth _is_ a rational decision-maker. Still – _still –_

She doesn’t have _favourites_ , but Claude is the closest.

“I should probably go,” Claude says after a moment. “Sorry for taking up your alone time with my nonsense.” She can hear him shift his weight awkwardly; when she says nothing, he shuffles over to the door and lingers there. “Teach,” he says suddenly, “do you often dream of us dying?”

She looks up. In the warm afternoon light, his skin is painted with a golden glow. He rests his shoulder against the doorframe, but his feet are already across the threshold, readying themselves to flee at the coming reproach; he is very clearly overstepping. He is unsure, young, and so very _alive_.

_Claude losing his balance as the wyvern goes berserk at the exploding fire spell, plummeting to his death from thirty feet –_

_Claude between the claws of a demonic beast, and she yanks the time backwards before she hears the sickening crunch of his spine –_

_Claude, slumped against the side of his fallen mount, torn golden cape twisted around his neck, armour caked with blood._ _His_ _gloved hand clutches splintered bone; a broken Relic. “Keep going. I’ll – I’ll still be there when you win.”_ She had not remembered that one for a long time.

“Every night,” she says.

A shiver goes through him. Her own head feels tired and aching, like a bruised overripe fruit hanging from her shoulders. Bursting with fading memories of time that never happened.

Aimlessly, she wonders what it is on her face that make his eyes turn so startled.

 _Grief,_ says Sothis softly. _It’s grief, dear._

“I see,” Claude finally manages. His words come out half-breathy, as if he couldn’t decide between his regular cadence and a whisper. She can tell that the gears in his head are turning dizzyingly fast. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head mutely. “Maybe another time.”

“All right,” he says with a small nod of acknowledgement. When he raises his head again to meet her eyes, the smile that lights up his face feels only half-manufactured. “You’re never what I expect you to be, huh, Teach? But maybe that’s a good reminder to have around. Gotta recognise when chaos is just chaos, right?”

And with that he is gone, feet thumping along the corridor, no doubt hurrying to enact his contingency plan to deal with Sylvain. Byleth stares at the door for the long moment, vaguely aware of the pounding in her ears.

 _Well,_ says Sothis with a note of finality in her voice, _that was a nuisance. He has come baiting you for answers, but gone away with perhaps less respect that he once had, and more questions. What will you do about this?_

Byleth shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says, and it sounds wrong and detached even in her own ears. “Nothing at all.”

As she closes her eyes, the inner sides of her eyelids burn with the images of death.


	2. The toil of mortal men

She can hear the commotion all the way from the stables. As she leads her horse through the cool morning mist towards the training grounds, it only seems to gain volume until two brightly coloured heads emerge from the gates. 

“Professor,” Sylvain demands, voice raised with exasperation. His cavalier armour is impeccably polished, but above the mirror-shining breastplate, he looks rattled. “What is  _ he  _ doing here?”

“As I was  _ saying,  _ if you only chose to offer me the courtesy of listening _ — _ ”

“Why are your horses not warmed up yet?” Byleth asks crisply. “I asked you both to be ready to begin at dawn.”

Sylvain’s eyes swivel to hers in deep betrayal. “You invited  _ Lorenz  _ to our private sessions, Professor?”

“Firstly, they are hardly private, given that we are still within the monastery training grounds,” Lorenz says loftily with the air of a man who has been thoroughly vindicated, “and secondly, if you think that you may take advantage of the professor’s kindness to further your own nefarious causes, you will swiftly find that Lorenz Hellman Gloucester will not look idly on such a trespass.”

“ _ Ugh, _ ” Sylvain groans with feeling. “Why did you have to do this, Professor? We’ve been having so much fun together!”

“Perhaps the  _ fun  _ had been one-sided,” says Lorenz smugly. “I am unsurprised that the professor has reached out to me to rein you in. I have seen your attempts at courtship, and they are dreadful.”

Byleth fixes a cool glare at both of them. “On your mounts, please.”

Bickering momentarily ground to a halt, they both climb their stirrups and begin circling the training arena in brisk walk. She joins them after a moment, her own horse trailing behind them. Both of their horses are tall pitch-black stallions, which she supposes has as much to do with the strength and stamina of the animals as with the dramatic effect. In contrast, hers is a lithe, chestnut mare, a personal favourite whenever she must ride on the ground; swift, smart, and prone to be underestimated.

“We have reached the limit of what direct instruction can do, at least in what I’m trying to teach you here,” she says. She has directed her words to Sylvain, but both of their heads swivel round to look back at her. “You both could benefit from another mounted sparring partner, especially as your techniques are very different.”

Sylvain’s face falls. “Does that mean that he’s gonna tag along every day now?”

“Should he choose to volunteer his time,” says Byleth evenly. Lorenz preens in his saddle, casting Sylvain another very smug glance. “I have also asked Annette and Lysithea to join us later in the week. I think their presence could be very beneficial as well.”  _ To yourself, and to my… reputation.  _ Claude could be a meddling busybody, but he usually had a point.

Sylvain stalls his horse, falling in step with her mare. She can  _ see  _ him turning up his charm – a casual hand raking up his hair to work up the perfect effortless tousle, a conspiratorial lean-in, a blindingly brilliant smile. “See, Professor… I really enjoyed it when it was just the two of us. I’ve been learning a lot, and not just about the battlefield. Are you really going to let Lorenz and others in on our little secret thing?”

Byleth pulls at the reins. The mare stops, and so does Sylvain’s horse. She holds his gaze for a moment, keeping her eyes cool until his smile grows stale. “Sylvain. If you only even put your heart into your training when it’s with me, you will never reach your potential.”

“That’s okay, Professor,” he says with a little laugh. “Squandering my potential is just the thing I’m great at. And hey, if I get some alone time with a beautiful lady out of it, then all the better.”

Byleth’s mouth falls into a single taut line. “Do you not care to live through our battles, then?”

“Nah.” Sylvain waves a hand, seemingly oblivious to her anger. “I’ve made peace with it. I’ve got so much luck it’s ridiculous, and—” he winks, blindingly charming, “—I’ve got you, right? So I’ll probably make it through the Academy. And later on I’ll have the power of the Relic to fall back on. Still, one day it’s probably not going to be enough, and I’ll fall. But it’s not like me training extra hard now and letting go of all things I enjoy is going to make a difference. So I guess what I’m saying is…” He leans in closer on one stirrup, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Can we ditch Lorenz and just keep training alone?”

Blood pounds in her temples. Hazily, she can hear Sothis remark,  _ At least now we know why he is so reckless with his own life. _

“This has been enough warm-up,” she directs with a cool voice. Sylvain straightens back in his saddle, expression shuttered. Before it disappears, she thinks she can see a flash of irritation.  _ Good.  _ “Take position on opposite sides of the arena. Sylvain, you will attack with a lance. Lorenz, you will counter with black magic.”

“What kind of spell neutralisation should I apply, Professor?” Lorenz asks in his best teacher’s pet voice, adjusting his gauntlets pedantically. Byleth shakes her head.

“This is a direct battle simulation. You will both hold nothing back, either in strength or quality of attack.” At his startled gaze, she drops the reins and swirls her hand in a shielding spell. “I will safeguard it so no hard comes to either of you, but do not come to expect it.”

“Very well,” says Lorenz. He looks a bit pale as he takes his position; Sylvain smirks at that, passing her mare a little bit too close as he heads to his own corner. His leg brushes against hers in what is nothing but a blatant provocation.

“Don’t hold back, Gloucester,” he calls, utterly blasé. “Gonna take more than just a few spells to take me down!”

_ He falters in his saddle, neck breaking with a sickening crunch – _

Byleth inhales sharply, forcing down the bile that wells in her throat at the flashback. “Begin!”

As Sylvain begins his charge, she swears she can see a flash of a golden capelet at the grounds’ entrance.

*** 

“What,” she snaps in as clear an anger as she remembers ever expressing, throwing her leg over the horse’s head to land on the dew-moist sand of the arena, “was that?”

Lorenz has already dismounted, pale as a sheet, hands lighting up with a rudimentary healing spell. Sylvain struggles to prop himself on the elbow as he lies flat on the ground, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. “I think – a Ragnarok,” he wheezes.

“Don’t move, you fool,” barks Lorenz hurriedly, pressing the watery-blue glow of his hand against Sylvain’s temple. “I’m sorry, Professor – I’m so sorry, truly, my deepest apologies—“

“Sylvain,” Byleth says in a cold tone, even as her own arms are frantic, casting the more elaborate version of Lorenz’s sloppy heal. It rises off her hands like mist and settles across Sylvain’s chest.

He groans, but there is unmistakable note of relief in it. The ill-looking hollow along his sternum slowly rises back up.

Lorenz lets out a breath heavy enough to pull the three of them down to the Abyss. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I don’t know what happened, I never  _ actually  _ intended to hurt him—”

“You did well, Lorenz,” Byleth says. Lorenz’s shoulders sag with relief, and then immediately straighten back up into proper posture. “This was Sylvain’s fault.”

“Hey,” the culprit protests weakly from the ground. “I only did what you asked me to do—”

“You countered my shield,” says Byleth. 

Lorenz sends her an incredulous glance; she ignores it. “I know you’re a talented caster, Sylvain, and should this happen in any other circumstance, I would be congratulating you for your quick reaction time. Nullifying the enemy’s spell is an important skill, and a rare feat on the battlefield. Very impressive. But the fact remains that you did so only to hurt yourself.”

Some life returned to his face thanks to the healing spell, Sylvain grins at her. She does not smile back. “I don’t know about that counter, but maybe I’m just not cut out for paired sparring just yet. You could give me a few more private instructions first?”

Lorenz makes an indignant sound in the back of his throat. Byleth holds Sylvain’s eyes for a long moment, cool and still. “You will never disappoint me if you try and fail,” she says evenly, “but you have disappointed me now.”

For a beat, Sylvain is stock-still.

Then violent colour rushes to his face, orange-gold eyes turning hard. “Fine,” he spits, scrambling to pick himself up from the ground, “that’s actually something I don’t need any more practice in. I don’t care what you think of me, Professor. I thought you wanted to spend some time with me here, but this is obviously some kind of test instead. So I’ll just go ahead and fail myself.” 

His arms clasp tightly around his own chest, either to nurse the still-healing injury or something else whatsoever. “Whatever this is, it’s not compulsory, right? I’ll see you in class.”

Panic rises in her throat, thick like the stale battlefield fog.  _ One leg dangling in a lopsided stirrup, bloodied auburn hair – _

_ I think I told you,  _ Sothis says in the depths of her mind,  _ that some things are immutable. _

“Sylvain.” Her voice sounds alien to her own ears. It’s not cracking, but it’s a near thing. “The only thing I care about is keeping you safe.”

He doesn’t turn as he walks away towards the gates of the grounds. “Then you can care about it all on your own, eh, Professor? See you around.”

Byleth stares at his back until he disappears beyond the gates, Lorenz a silent, befuddled presence at her side. The dawn has risen above the walls of the monastery now, the deep shadows of the embankments shortening as the sun climbs its way up the blemishless azure sky. Still her mind is filled with the fog of a distant battlefield, its moist air crackling with black magic.

Finally, Lorenz clears his throat tactfully. “I, ah, I gather the training session has concluded now? I will be glad to join you for breakfast, Professor, if you would have me.”

That snaps Byleth out of her haze.

“No,” she decides quickly. “It would be a waste not to train if we are already here with readied horses. You will practice your magic against me, Lorenz.”

Genuine surprise crosses Lorenz’s face, a fleeting, endearing look that – as soon as he composes himself – immediately gets replaced by a more learned smile. “It would be my honour, Professor.”

As they climb back into their saddles, Byleth attempts to push away the persistent memory of a bloodied corpse in the fog. But it doesn’t go away.

*** 

Predictably, Sylvain is not there the next morning, even as all three of her black mages show up with expectant chatter. Lorenz tries his hardest to appear the most familiar and knowledgeable, referring to their  _ private session  _ every other sentence, but Annette and Lysithea hardly notice; the side benefit of pairing up two of the Academy’s hardest workers, Byleth thinks, is that it leaves very little space for peacocking. It’s a long, gruelling session, a three-way battle followed by a series of duels; once Lorenz realises that his attempts to play the favourite only put him at a disadvantage, he drops it and immediately becomes tenfold more effective. Watching him and Lysithea deflect each other’s spells at lightning speed sparks a small jolt of pride in Byleth’s chest.

_ A thousand little things,  _ she thinks,  _ to make a man _ . Sothis hums in agreement, fond and melancholic.

_ Your little ones are swift to grow,  _ she says.  _ Somehow, watching them brings me both joy and great sadness. What lurks in my memory that pains me so? I feel that this is not the first time we walk this path, you and I. _

Byleth knows it; she knows the almost-forgotten memories that rear their bloodied heads every once in a while, rusty-red flashes of a rewound future. But the only  _ true  _ reality that came to pass is the one around her, the morning sun rising over the chilled sand of the training arena, and the crisp shadows of her students’ silhouetted spilled on the ground like grey ink. Their laughter and bickering, their petty squabbles over claiming victory in a close match, the clatter of dishes in the dining hall as they sit down to their breakfast. 

Annette’s plate is a mountain of eggs and cheese, mirroring her own; Lysithea and Lorenz watch them with scepticism over their dainty selection of sweet pastries. “The method to perfecting the filling,” explains Lorenz loftily, “is in finding the right genus of the sweet peach—”

She spots Sylvain as he slinks into the dining hall a quarter hour before the food service stops. He has very clearly dug himself out of bedsheets not five minutes prior, uniform in utter dishevel and jacket wrongly buttoned, auburn hair plastered across his face. He passes them without a greeting and glides across the hall to sit with the Black Eagles.

“Uh-uh,” murmurs Annette, squinting to look at him. “Do you think Sylvain and Felix had another one of their fights, Professor? Is that why he hasn’t shown up to training today?”

“Who cares?” manages Lysithea around a pastry. “More Professor’s time for us. If he wants to waste his life in bed, that’s his own problem.”

Across the hall, Ingrid’s eyes meet Byleth’s. Then the girl pushes herself up with a stern expression and marches straight for the Black Eagles table, pulling Sylvain up by the loose collar from his seat between Petra and Dorothea.

_ Her lance pierces the corpse of the Dark Knight once, twice, thrice, a bellowing cry of rage and grief splitting the air – _

The eggs turn ashen in her mouth. She swallows it like a handful of rough gravel and pushes her tray away, rising from the bench. “I need to prepare for the morning session now. All three of you did well today, I am very proud. Lorenz, Lysithea, I’ll see you in class.”

Lorenz’s eyes flicker to Sylvain and back to her, mouth forming a question she is too tired to deflect. She slips out of the hall in a flicker and briskly makes her way to her own quarters.

Where there is no-one else but Felix leaning against her door, his perpetual scowl a few shades darker than usual.

“I need to speak with you,” he says, voice gruff. At Byleth’s mute nod, he peels himself away from the door and follows her into her room, shifting his weight restlessly. She suppresses a sigh, motioning at him to take the chair as she sits on the bed, Sothis glimmering out of nothingness to peer over her shoulder.

He doesn’t sit down. “I,  _ ugh _ ,” he bites out, “wanted to – apologise. For the idiot.”

Byleth offers him a look of silent surprise. Felix flounders for a moment, hands wringing awkwardly, as if itching to close on a sword and cut his way through the conversation. “He’s just  _ like that _ ,” he says. “Our brothers and fathers – they weren’t exactly – ”

He trails off, visibly frustrated with himself. “ _ Point is _ , he probably didn’t mean any of this and would still love to be in your class. That’s all.”

_ Ah.  _ Byleth’s lip twitches as she finally understands. “I wasn’t going to send him back, Felix. If he still chooses to be a Golden Deer, then that’s what he is.”

“Right.” A faint trace of colour rises to his sharp, milk-white cheekbones. “Fine. I’ll… go now.”

“Did Sylvain ask you to talk to me?”

Felix scoffs, reaching for his anger as a crutch amid the awkwardness. “As if I’d do it for that good-for-nothing even if he did.”

Byleth keeps a straight face even as Sothis is snickering in her ear. “I see,” she says evenly. “You’re a good friend, Felix.” 

“Whatever,” he bites out, his face now flush in earnest. “See you later, Professor.”

_ Meddlers,  _ says Sothis blithely as they both watch Felix scamper off with impressive speed, clearly more terrified of emotional honesty than any battleground foe. The door clicks shut with just a little too much impetus.  _ Meddlers and schemers, all of them. Must you really surround yourself with such bothersome allies? _

“They care for him,” says Byleth in a low voice, smile fading. “And they would mourn him. I will not let it happen.”

Sothis sighs.  _ Of course,  _ she concedes without arguing, even as her eyes cloud with some terrible, unreachable memory – of children, children dying, grey stone painted red.  _ Of course. _

As Byleth returns to the desk, the mounted calendar catches her eye. They near the midst of Red Wolf Moon; winter, still tiptoeing around the sun-warmed monastery walls, will soon begin in earnest. Already she can feel the coolness seeping through the paved stone of her ground-floor bedroom, the familiar chilled draft pushing itself through the cracks between the window and the ancient stone. 

A mission is circled there, five days from now. The ache she feels in her dead chest at the sight is a cold, constricting thing, an encroaching circlet of ice. Not yet piercing; but more cold is still to come.

_ How do you save someone,  _ she thinks despite herself,  _ that does not wish to be saved?  _

Sothis is silent within her, offering no comfort and no rebuke. There is something within her that feels unusually detached, as if unwilling to start a doomed argument.

For a moment, Byleth feels terribly alone. Buried under the unforgiving cold weight of their secret, a feeble human silhouette standing at banks of the frozen river and fruitlessly trying to turn it back. Seeing them pass under the thick seal of ice, glittering silver-bright creatures that she loves so, careless and unreachable even as she bangs a desperate fist against the frozen surface, swiftly tumbling towards their demise.

And, bloodied as her hands may be from pounding themselves into a raw pulp, the ice will not shatter. The river will not turn.

A flare of gold lights up her mind, lightning-quick and gone with only a pulsating afterimage-

_ \--we have the strength to scale the walls between us, to reach out our hands in friendship so we can open our true hearts to one another-- _

Byleth exhales.

_ No-one can know,  _ she tells the memory before it fades back into obscurity, swallowed back into the icy depths of time.  _ No-one can know. _

Then, with the weight of a thousand futures heavy on her shoulders, she lowers herself down to a chair and begins jotting down the seminar plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Where the north wind meets the sea_   
>  _There's a river full of memory_   
>  _Sleep, my darling, safe and sound_   
>  _For in this river all is found_
> 
> _In her waters, deep and true_   
>  _Lay the answers and a path for you_   
>  _Dive down deep into her sound_   
>  _But not too far or you'll be drowned_
> 
> _Yes, she will sing to those who'll hear_   
>  _And in her song, all magic flows_   
>  _But can you brave what you most fear?_   
>  _Can you face what the river knows?_
> 
> _Where the north wind meets the sea_   
>  _There's a mother full of memory_   
>  _Come, my darling, homeward bound_   
>  _When all is lost, then all is found_
> 
> [All is Found](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1HL26K1nL0)


	3. The gift of the goddess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished polishing this up a little earlier, so here you go: final chapter, published a full 72h ahead of schedule. Enjoy the heartbreak!

In the third week of the Red Wolf Moon, they depart for the Western Church territory to protect Rhea as she doles out her retribution. Byleth leads them with a heavy heart, an ominous feeling weighing on her ever harder with every passing mile. Their convoy is unusually large, Golden Deer along with others picked to join the archbishop’s entourage, either for their skillset or their own volunteering: Catherine, Ashe, Mercedes, Ingrid, Felix, Ferdinand, and Linhardt. Despite the size of the company, they move westward briskly, slowed down only by thickening fog. The air is heavy and chilling with moisture, dark clouds looming on the hazy horizon. 

She keeps her mare well ahead of the convoy, unwilling to participate in their usual travelling chatter. Hazy flashes of death circle her mind like vultures, eager to descend at any slip of attention. 

_A mighty blow of a warrior axe slices Lorenz’s head clean through, her eyes slamming closed as she pulls back at the strands of time. She doesn’t want to see._

_A charred battleground, fields of golden wheat trampled under armoured boots. A trumpet calls –_ she doesn’t remember it – _and a man in a heavy fur cloak thrust his arm forth to begin the charge, open hand splayed skyward._

_Zanado, Zanado –_

The fog grows ever thicker as the twilight leans lower, and Byleth calls for torches. Not long after they become a long line of irregularly moving flickers, red tongues of fire the only indication that there is a small army crawling across the land.

Ill-boding premonition is a constant heavy pull at the base of her stomach. She distracts herself with counting the torches.

Then – an all-explaining swish of an arrow to her ear.

It’s almost a relief.

“Defence formation around Rhea,” she calls out, turning her mare around. The torches move immediately. She hears the knock of arrowheads against the metal – a sure sign that the shields went up. She allows herself one moment of pride before rushing forth, a stream of fire flowing out of her palm to momentarily illuminate the way.

Two battalions ahead, one westward.

“Linhardt, Raphael,” she calls. Two torches rise among the lights of the convoy. “Stay within five feet of the archbishop at all times.” Two stifled _understood_ reach her as she’s already rattling off another string of commands. “Fliers, you will scout. Claude forward, Ingrid west. Ferdinand, you will protect the rear. Do not engage unless you’re sure you see the _full_ extent of the enemy forces, do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Teach!”

“Leonie, Mercedes, Sylvain—” She chokes up, something in her chest collapsing painfully, but she forces the order through it. “Rear guard. Everyone else, with me!”

The torches rearrange themselves as they canter towards her. Byleth reaches for her magic, launching another inelegant fire projectile to light the way. A group of heavily armoured Western Church soldiers is barrelling down towards her.

Before she manages to draw her sword, Lorenz and Lysithea flank them from both sides, black magic spells flying low and deadly in the fog. Neither of them holds back this time. It’s a massacre, swift and efficient.

Behind her, Catherine lets out a loud whoop. “Whoa! Good job, kiddos. Let’s dance!”

Before the battle begins in earnest, Byleth reaches into the whirlpools of time and, fingers tightened white on the raw temporal strings, makes a knot. 

She tunes out the pointless sense of sight and cuts, clashes, and smashes on instinct, listening for groans and bellows of her enemies. More torches pass her: Ashe and Ignatz with arrows trained onto the milky fog, Felix and Hilda brandishing heavy axes, Marianne on her white mount, trembling hands drawing a spell as sky-blue as her hair. 

Above them, a heavy shadow passes dangerously low, the wind from its wings dispersing the fog. Claude has a scheme for everything, but she will have to speak to him about the dangers of friendly fire.

Not now. Now – for the moment she can see.

Just far enough to see Sylvain break formation to go after a Dark Knight.

The enemy creeps closer from the rear, still too far to threaten Rhea, maddeningly out of range. Leonie lets out a frustrated yelp as Sylvain canters away from her side, his lance raised in challenge at the black cloaked figure.

Byleth digs her heels violently into her mare’s sides, spurring her into a startled gallop. Her mind whirs in chaos.

She is too late.

Thick smoke envelops Sylvain like a sudden overgrowth of thorns. He lets out a quiet groan and falters in his saddle, body going limp and lifeless –

She freezes time before he falls.

“Sothis,” she urges. The child goddess looks at her from her throne, ageless green eyes still and unreadable.

“Time,” she says, “is a swift river. Yet you are insistent in struggling upstream.”

“I can’t let him die!”

Sothis sighs. “I know. Have we not been here before?”

“Even if we have,” Byleth insists, plunging her hand back into the timestream, feeling for the slack that has gathered there since the last time she’d rewound it, “it’s different. I’ve done things differently now.”

Shifting on her throne, Sothis rolls her eyes at her. Oddly, that brief flicker of petulance makes Byleth feels better. “You are _insufferable._ This is exactly why mortals are not entrusted with such power. He has learned nothing, and yet you still fall over yourself to save his life.”

Ignoring her, Byleth pulls at the strand of time bunched up in her hand.

“Sylvain,” she yells before the wings of Claude’s wyvern clear the fog, “do _not_ engage the Dark Knight!”

A torch flickers uncertainly at the rear, moves, then grows still; the leathery wings beat the air above her a moment later, only to see the black mounted figure advance at the rear, eating up the distance between Sylvain and Leonie much faster than the last time. She can see Sylvain has grown stock-still, unmoving even as the enemy crosses within range, a deadly spell flying at Leonie’s chest –

Time shatters into black and purple, then rewinds.

She is with them as the knight approaches, skirting just out of their reach. “Counter,” she tells him, and something like bitter amusement flickers in his orange-gold eyes. “Leonie – engage with a bow. Do not let him get within range, else he will kill you both.” With that she rides forward, engaging the rider with her own spell. As his horse dances to dodge the attack, Leonie’s arrow hits his right shoulder, and the lance slips out of his reach. The knight’s arms swirl in a Hades spell, but she is already close enough to cut through it with her own sword.

Behind her, there is a strangled yelp. An arrow has flown from the east, lodging itself in Sylvain’s throat. 

Time rewinds.

A pegasus knight approaches from across the mist-covered lake.

It rewinds.

Sylvain and Leonie survive with Raphael’s help only to leave Rhea’s flank unguarded, green blood pooling out of her slashed chest.

It rewinds.

Byleth calls in Ingrid only to have her shot out of the sky by the same eastern archer.

It rewinds.

It rewinds.

It rewinds.

“ _Stop,_ ” snaps Sothis, her small hands grasping Byleth’s as she reaches into the stream of time for the tenth time. She is frail, but something in her touch shocks Byleth to the core. “You shall have it no more! If you are too feeble to make the decision, I shall make it for you. If your child is so insistent on losing his life, then lose it he will. No more!”

“I can’t let this happen,” she snaps, wrenching her hand away. “I have accounted for everything now—”

“You have _not_ ,” Sothis says, high and frustrated. “Each time you turn back, you grow ever more chaotic. There is no salvation waiting for him at your hand, you fool. It is our lot to watch our children die, no matter how desperately we want them to live!”

“Maybe it is your lot,” Byleth retorts, voice sharp as glass shards, “but it shall not be _mine_.”

The black-and-purple realm outside of time grows still and chilled. Sothis falters visibly, mouthing a word that Byleth knows intimately, a splinter grown into the centre of her dead heart. _Zanado. Zanado. Zanado –_

_Her children’s hair are the forest and the sea, green like spring of rebirth. And they burn red, red, red. Her bones crush their bodies, her heart is their bane, and in their agonized cries they call her name, over and over.  
_

“I shall permit you one more try,” Sothis says after a long moment. She is weak, trembling, her slender form sagging with the weight of memory. “After that, no more. I am sick to my very core of reliving their deaths time and time again. I shall not add yours to my assortment of regrets.”

Byleth stills her hand. Regret pools in her stomach, hot and choking. “I’m – sorry—”

“ _Go_ ,” Sothis says, falling back on her throne, youthful face twisting into anger. “Before I elect to pull my power away from you at all, you vexing mortal! Now do as your goddess commands!”

“Thank you,” Byleth breathes, and with an exhausted hand she reaches for the strands of time one more time.

She stays in her position at the vanguard, even as the wyvern’s wings reveal a Dark Knight and Sylvain’s charge. She watches, unmoving, as Sylvain draws his lance and taunts the enemy into range. As the Dark Knight casts the deadly spell. As it leaves his black-clad hands –

 _Inevitable,_ Byleth thinks, even as everything in her lurches in terror. _A swift river, its surface frosted shut. It will carry us all downstream. Cannot plan against it, cannot strategise around it. This is the limit of the power of the goddess._

_Sometimes chaos is just chaos._

Byleth forces herself to watch. For the first time, she knows, out of many, many, many coming in her sleepless nights. She can see in perfect clarity the moment Sylvain realises his impending death. His face spasms, twists into a terrified grimace, eyes open wide in blank horror, torso vainly twisting away. 

An arrow falls from the heavens and knocks hard against the black helmet. 

The Dark Knight stumbles, the spell fizzling out harmless in the fog. Sylvain bellows and plunges his lance into his chest. Another arrow takes out the archer that has snuck up on their eastern flank, Leonie whirling around to finish him off with her lance. 

Above, she can hear the loud flap of the pegasus wings; the fog is clearing, the enemy battalions thinning as the vanguard are finishing up their skirmish. The battle yet continues, but she takes one look at the plains around them and sees they have won.

Her pulse is hammering in her ears. “Claude,” she calls, and one of the wyverns circling overhead lowers its flight to join her. 

Her house leader’s quiver is almost empty, his hair and face wet from the flight in the fog, but he still grins at her as he presents his bow in a casual salute.

“Hey, Teach. Good work, wasn’t it? I’ll have to reuse this wyverns-as-fans manoeuvre some other time.”

 _You,_ Byleth wants to say, too many words pushing themselves through her clenched throat. _You impossible man._ A memory flutters behind her eyelashes, of broad shoulders and tired eyes; of gold and green and the pungent smell of blood on the inner side of his gloves. _How did you know?_

“It’s dangerous,” she warns him instead, forcing her voice into its regular stoic wheel-rut. “If you focus on making wind, you control your movement less. That can make you more vulnerable to projectiles. You also need to remember that flying this low is a danger to your allies.”

“Noted.” Claude nods his head thoughtfully, but then breaks it off with a brilliant smile. “It worked pretty well today, though, Teach, won’t you agree?”

He’s blatantly fishing for praise, and Byleth finally relents. “Yes. Well done, Claude. That was very good thinking.”

He preens at the compliment, face alight with a wide grin despite his miserable wet state. “Hey, thanks. I could get used to this.” He angles his wyvern a little closer so that their legs almost touch; her mare whisks her ears irritatedly. “By the way, did you see that mess Sylvain was getting himself into? That was certain death for sure.”

Byleth swallows, hands tight on the reins. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

Claude gives her another glance, one that is almost ostentatiously casual. “I guess it was a good thing I knew to watch out for him.”

She almost smiles. “You did?”

“Well, for him against black magic, to be specific. I don’t exactly have the time on the battlefield to babysit him at all times, you know.” Claude winks at her. “It wasn’t difficult to figure _that_ out. Once I knew you took Lorenz to spar with him, the rest was pretty obvious.”

“It was?” Byleth says non-committally. For a long moment, they stare at each other, two poker faces sizing up the full extent of the other’s indifference. Claude breaks his first; Byleth doesn’t think it’s because he expected to lose. He’s already excellent at hiding his thoughts. But not all of him _wants_ to hide, not yet. Or not to her.

“I think,” he says, something serious swimming under the glittering surface of his grin, “that even chaos can be understood, if you know enough about how it came to be. And maybe, if you’re good enough, it can even be predicted.” His emerald eyes bore into hers, not a trace of disappointment in sight; instead they’re alight with familiar blazing curiosity. “I think I’d like to ride at your side on our way back, Teach, if you’d permit me. Who knows, maybe we’ll even buddy up enough to have a chat about _dreams_.”

Byleth cannot help it. A wide, beaming smile pushes its way up to her lips, brimming with gratitude, fondness, amusement, relief – and Claude’s eyes grow a little wider as he takes in the sight, something soft taking up residence inside them. 

“I doubt I will satisfy your misplaced curiosity, but yes. We can ride together, Claude. I think you’ve earned it.”

He huffs a genuine laugh, his free hand clasping his nape in a familiar half-awkward gesture. “Damn straight I did. Looking forward to wheedling you for all you have, Teach, so you better come prepared with all your assortment of stoic faces. Now, if you excuse me, I think we still have a couple of archers to mop up.” He spurs his wyvern up; she lets out a piercing squawk and flaps her wings with more vigour. “Still, Teach… every single time I think you finally turn out to be only human, and that I finally see through you, you turn around and pull out something like _this._ Do you even know how mad it drives me?”

Byleth angles her head up to face him, letting smile morph into something more playful, just the slightest edge of hidden danger coming to the fore. _He’s earned it._ “Whoever said that I am?”

She catches him off-guard; then his grin grows so impossibly wide it almost splits his head in two. “Oh, this is _good._ Very, _very_ good. Thank the goddess for the straps on those stirrups, ‘cause otherwise I think I could be falling for you in more ways than one. Can’t wait to talk later, Teach!”

Byleth stares at the waning silhouette of his mount for a long moment, her overstrained mind grinding to a halt. _What on—_

“Professor,” says Sylvain behind her. She turns around in a flash.

He is _alive._ Warmly, blessedly alive. He’s dismounted, looking almost small and feeble on the ground despite his full cavalier armour. His auburn head is a shock of colour in the fog, bright and unbloodied.

It eases something in her chest, ice filling her lungs draining at the sight of him. Without thinking, she jumps off her horse and closes the distance between them, pushing him flush against her in a tight embrace.

He goes rigid against her, a cold armoured statue. But after a moment, his hands come to return the hug in a rare moment of awkwardness. His chin comes to rest on her head, and Byleth can hear the alien thudding of his heart even through the iron plane of his breastplate – _alive, alive, alive_.

“Gotta say, Professor,” he says in a half-strangled voice, “you sure know how to confuse a guy.”

She pulls away. Sylvain looks like he’s been thoroughly knocked off-balance, not a shred of fake charm remaining on his face. “I… really don’t know how to keep myself alive, do I?”

“No,” she says, voice hard against the emotion welling in her throat. “Were it not for Claude, you would have died a very painful death.”

He shivers. “Uh. I’ve got to thank him, then, I guess. How do you even thank a guy for something like this? Anyway…” He takes a hesitant step closer, raking his hand through his hair in a gesture that is, for once, awkward and not appealing. “I— I’m sorry. For how I’ve been acting all moon. You were trying to teach me, and I was too busy fanning my ego to notice what you were saying.”

Byleth nods silently. He fidgets for a long moment before finally saying with a nervous laugh, “I kinda hoped you’d disagree with me here. Say that those _were_ dates after all.”

“No,” Byleth says mercilessly. “I care about you being alive more than I care about your ego, Sylvain.”

He flinches. Then swallows heavily and says, “I guess that was all new. I never – staying alive hasn’t ever been a priority for _me_ , Professor. For the heir of Gautier, sure, and for Sylvain the boyfriend, and for the romantic hero of the battlefield, and— you see the point. But I never…”

She waits for him to finish, but his eyes are fixed on his feet, his thoughts having taken a turn into the deep and muddy darkness. She can imagine what lies there: Margrave Gautier, Miklan the brother and Miklan the monster, bloodlines, Crests and the Lance of Ruin. 

“Sylvain,” she says, as comforting as she can manage. “There are quite a few people in your life who already see you for who you are. If you look around you, you’ll find them right there at your side. And I know that _I_ don’t care about those other Sylvains. _You_ are my student and my friend. And as long as you try your best to stay alive, you will never disappoint me.”

He shivers again. With the veneer of philandering stripped away, he looks strikingly young. “That’s… what you said before.”

“And I have always meant it.”

“Right,” he says, almost to himself, eyes trained on her with raw emotion. “Professor – if I might be so forward—“

“Yes,” she says, and he closes the space between them in two short strides to wrap himself around her again. 

She rests her palms on his back, hoping that the warmth of her body can seep through the armour and into his skin. And if he shakes in her arms just a little, and if, when he finally draws away, his eyes are downcast and lined with two moist streaks – that is just the chill and the fog, nothing more.

*** 

When they return, the entire monastery is awash with the new rumour that the secret lessons between Sylvain and the new professor are just a ploy to obscure his _real_ affair with Seteth. Flayn finds the thought hilarious and actively encourages it, and both Manuela and Hanneman are beside themselves with incredulous merriment. Seteth, meanwhile, holes himself up in his office and refuses to dine in the hall for three weeks.

“You’d think that for all the censoring he practices, he should be more adept at information control,” remarks Claude casually. When Byleth wheedles him gently for his involvement, he disavows the project with an entirely too smug an expression. No matter; Sylvain valiantly embraces his newest fame, deflecting attention from Byleth with eagerness she suspects is rooted in guilty conscience. He seems to thrive on the absurdity of the rumour, and Byleth overhears him retelling the story – with many an embellishment – to two monastery nuns, their cheeks rosy and eyes glittering. 

“They’ve been pining after him for years,” he explains to Byleth over tea, shrugging gracefully. “Might as well offer them the taste of the real thing.”

“A few more weeks and you will believe yourself that you and he are dallying,” Byleth warns. Sylvain laughs, warm and genuine.

“It’s been known to happen. Sure convinced myself that you and I were a thing.”

Byleth levels a stoic stare at him, and he chuckles to himself as he pours her another cup. There is no letter from his father at his desk, but there have been other additions to his room décor since their first tea in Wyvern Moon: a polishing paste and a whetstone resting at the foot of the weapon rack, two lances and an axe hanging from it in immaculate condition. A stack of books on sorcery on his desk, topped by an invitation to the monastery dancing contest. And, because it is still _Sylvain’s_ room, another collection of handwritten poems to offer a lady for every occasion.

“I am very proud of the progress you’ve made since,” she says. The smile he gives her in response is a small, vulnerable thing.

Her chest grows tight with fierce protectiveness at the sight. _You will not die ever again. You will live, and you will thrive. I’ll make sure of it._

Then he laughs and changes the subject, and Byleth graciously follows the easy rhythm of the conversation before she excuses herself for a training session. 

*** 

The throne room is empty for a long time, even as she can always sense Sothis sulking at the back of her mind. Byleth doesn’t look for her; she still feels her disgruntled hurt as her own.

“I’m sorry,” she says to the vacant throne, fixing her eyes on the carved symbol of the Beginning. “You and I, we can see outside of the flow of time, yet we’re still dragged along its twists and turns. It is a cruel fate, ever crueller for you than to me.” Then, hesitantly, “I think I remember Zanado.”

Behind her, there is a barest rustle of heavy embroidered cloth. “And I,” says Sothis very softly, “remember the War of Dawn.”

Byleth’s pulse hammers in her ears. _A man in furs, shadowed eye full of spite. A woman in red finery, axe in her hands alive with vengeance. A chain splintering on an ancient coffin. A white wyvern carrying a golden rider – a dragon rising high into the plane of the open sky –_

“I don’t.”

“Good,” Sothis sighs at her back. “I would not wish the sight upon my bitterest enemy, even more so the mortal I share my heart with. You shall see in time.” Then, voice turning petulant, “I am still very cross with you, so do not think all is well between us!”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Byleth soothes, and Sothis falls silent behind her.

“You saved him,” she says, an odd mixture of emotion in her voice – awe and fondness and incredulity and jealousy and grief. “I pray that you will so defy all of my fears.”

Byleth shakes her head. “I didn’t save him. They saved each other.”

Sothis thinks on it for a long moment, a silent presence behind her. Then a small palm comes out of her chest as the child goddess phases right through her, cheeks puffed and tear-stained.

“Because you trusted them,” she says, her resolute voice a stark contrast to her face. “With your secret and with your fears. And so the meddling one knew to save the philandering one, even though stars only know _why_ you chose such bothersome ensemble for your apostles. My Nabateans…” She blinks quickly, more tears spilling freely from her childlike eyes. “I might be their goddess, yet I can offer them no reprieve. Time and time again I have been helpless against the currents of time. That power of ours shall save some, but not all. Their true salvation lies elsewhere.”

Her small hand reaches back into Byleth’s chest, clenching on something warm within it. A dull drumbeat of time echoes in the throne room. “Break the ice that divides you. For the sake of your children and mine, and every death that we must relive. Byleth – do you know what you must do?”

Byleth gathers the goddess to her chest, cradling the back of her head under her own chin. Sothis clings to her readily, ethereal tears of ancient grief staining her coat. _The children of the progenitor god were lost once, and will be lost again --_

But not all of them – and not if she can help it. Even chaos could be understood.

And predicted. And prevented –

Not by the goddess or the power of time, but each other.

A golden rider tumbles to dirt, but his eyes are glittering, victorious. -- _reach out our hands in friendship so we can open our true hearts to one another. That’s how we win!_

“The truth,” Byleth says softly. “Yes. I will tell him the truth.” 

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, _someone_ 's mind is about to be blown clean off.
> 
> I initially wanted to include here a long-ass note explaining my train of thought and the meaning of the ending, but then I though, eh, let the story speak for itself. So that's the end! Thanks for reading, pal, hope you enjoyed the ride. See you in the comments below!
> 
> (I'm mulling over adding more stories to this little verse, the natural follow-up being the aftermath with Claude. Let me know if you'd be interested.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Yell at me on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/wearwind_ao3)


End file.
